


Slithered From Eden into Your Arms

by obaewankenope (rexthranduil)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Communication, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Episode: Good Omens: Lockdown, Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens), They learn to Talk About Things, Title from a Hozier Song, lockdown - Freeform, soft fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:54:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25212754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rexthranduil/pseuds/obaewankenope
Summary: Sleeping until July. Someone but that's going to be dull. If he dreamed, it probably would at least be more satisfying, but he's a demon and demons don't dream.[N]ow it's 2020, there's a global pandemic and the UK is on lockdown—a rubbish one, he admits, that took too long to be put in place and Crowley isn't to blame for that sort of political ineptitude, he really isn't—and Crowley is bored. Bored, bored, bored, B O R E D.The last thing Crowley thinks of before he tries this dreaming lark is that he sort of hopes he’ll dream of the angel, the bookshop, and being with him instead of sleeping alone.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 83





	Slithered From Eden into Your Arms

**Author's Note:**

> So this was literally in response to Good Omens: Lockdown from _May 1st_. It's now 12th July. I have taken two months and twelve days to write this... *cries*. All because of hair petting and cuddles and feels.
> 
> I hope ya'll like this because I'm dead now. I've spent the last hour or so fighting with footnotes (figured them out eventually) so they should work for ya'll. Now I'm gonna pass out for sixish hours and then hate daylight.

Sleeping until July. Someone but that's going to be _dull_. If he dreamed, it probably would at least be more satisfying, but he's a demon and demons don't dream.i Demons don't disobey Hell and stop the Apocalypse either. Crowley glares at his bedding. He's a rubbish demon, so he might as well do the dreaming thing for once.ii That century of sleeping had been dull as dull could be and waking up in the 20th century had been invigorating primarily because it wasn't _boring_. 

Well, not as boring as sleeping without any sort of dream-mechanism in place like She gave humans to pass the time. Lucky buggers.

But now, now it's 2020, there's a global pandemic and the UK is on lockdown—a rubbish one, he admits, that took too long to be put in place and Crowley isn't to blame for _that_ sort of political ineptitude, he really isn't—and Crowley is _bored_. Bored, bored, bored, B O R E D.

So if he's bored while awake, he might as well make himself _not_ bored while asleep. He's never considered miracling himself to be _able_ to dream, why would he, but now… Now he's _tempted._ Aziraphale won't let him go over to the bookshop to pass the lockdown in company—responsible and noble do-gooder angel, adhering to the rules even if they're bloody immune to disease—and Crowley can't keep watering his plants and trolling the internet, forever. 

There's only so many lockdown memes he can make and retweet before he's contemplating buggering off to Alpha Centauri until this is all over. 

"Bloody angel, saying no," Crowley mutters, spraying his plants again, ignoring the way they tremble. The soil is already saturated and he knows he's causing more problems for them by over-watering them but he's frustrated and _bored_.

"It's not like either of us can get sick," he continues to gripe at the palm plant he's standing in front of. "Bloody pestilence was supposed to have _retired_ , wasn't meant to be bothering the world like this with something new for another couple years. They always were touchy though about their work," Crowley says, glancing at the Aloe Vera plant to his left. It's leaves tremble and visibly grow greener. "Damned annoying, this rubbish. I'm a demon and I'm stuck inside with _nothing to do_." 

"Taking down the Xbox and PlayStation servers only passes so much time, ya know?" The Christmas cactus shivers in response. "And causing more misery on top of this lockdown seems rather… Too mean. I'm a demon, I shouldn't care about being _too mean_ but I'm retired. Hell should have someone up here doing the work, not me. I'm a free-agent."

Crowley's plants listen to his continued griping for the rest of the day as he rehashes the same old complaints about this bloody lockdown. He's not a fan of Repeating Himself constantly but he's stuck without any Actual Company and he can't even go to The Ritz with the angel. No change in scenery is making him extra snippy.iii

And no, the local park _isn't_ enough of a change considering the bloody council put _padlocks_ on the gates. Enforcing social distancing is one thing, Crowley figures it's vaguely intelligent of them to try and limit contact by closing non-essential shops and stuff. But padlocking the _only_ green space in the area? Right, bloody stupid, that. 

In the end, Aziraphale doesn't call again and since it's dark out, Crowley finally decides to bite the bullet and settle down for sleep. Two months of sleep is nothing compared to a century, he knows that, but he doesn't want to sleep for two months because things are _different now_. Except, in many respects, things are still Very Much The Same. 

Aziraphale's sensibilities for one thing, Crowley thinks to himself, are never going to change. Even with all those little temptations and seductions the angel has performed over the years, Crowley knows Aziraphale is still very buttoned up about Some Things. Fraternising with a demon is _definitely_ one of those Things. 

So it's sleep and maybe dreaming. Crowley wants to do this dreaming lark he's heard humans mentioning. He's looked up the sleep studies and all the papers about how dreams are a way for the subconscious mind to process conscious experiences. He's curious as to whether he actually _has_ a subconscious. Since he's not human. But the idea of dreaming instead of just _being_ when sleeping… it's just too tempting to resist. 

Not that he'd resist anything, anyway. _Demon_. 

The last thing Crowley thinks of before he tries this dreaming lark is that he sort of hopes he’ll dream of the angel, the bookshop, and being with him instead of sleeping alone.

Of course, what Anthony J Crowley, the demon who tempted Eve, the Serpent of Eden, doesn’t know is this: the subconscious is an endlessly powerful thing. Especially the subconscious of a celestial being, whether it be divine or infernal.

* * *

Aziraphale bites his lip as he replaces the receiver, thinking that he really ought to call Crowley back immediately. He’s sure the demon has misunderstood him.iv They’re not agents of their previous employers any longer but Aziraphale is _still an angel_. His nature is fixed. He has an Obligation to do good. Even if it’s not the kind of good Heaven approves of. 

Saying ‘no’ to Crowley’s offer of coming over, of them isolating _together_ , is the responsible thing to do. It is.v

Aziraphale has to believe it is. But, then again, he believed the responsible thing during the Apocalypse had been to plan for killing young Adam. Aziraphale frowns down at his cup. The cocoa has gone cold again but he doesn’t feel the urge to reheat it again. It’s rather absurd but, he feels like he doesn’t quite deserve the delight of a good cup of cocoa now that he’s thinking about this _stuff_.vi

Of course, calling Crowley back _now_ after rejecting his offer of companionship would be terribly rude of Aziraphale. To say no and then change his mind on a whim. No, no. He looks at the books he’d been perusing before the urge to call his demon had arisen. They’re a mixture of cooking books, poetry from Greece, India, and South America, to treatise on the strange nature of online ‘fandoms’. That last one had been an unexpected find and the angel has every intention of reading it later this evening; he’s not familiar with this term ‘fandom’ but he has a feeling that he really ought to be.vii

The desire to call the demon later in the evening, just to have a _little chat you see_ is strong enough to have Aziraphale’s fingers itching to pick up the receiver. Which is truly strange but not all that uncommon of his body when his thoughts turn to Crowley; Aziraphale has reviewed his actions over the years of their Arrangement and has reached the conclusion that, when Crowley is involved, the self-control Aziraphale possesses is _sorely tested_.

Crowley is a walking temptation to Aziraphale and it’s difficult to admit that even now they’re free to act without fear of punishment. Judgement is another thing entirely, of course, but judgement matters less when you’ve stood in heaven and decided to fiddle with delicate equipment on the off-chance you can prevent Armageddon.

This whole Lockdown lark has been a right old bother, Aziraphale thinks, nibbling on his lower lip as he forcibly turns his thoughts from Crowley and what Crowley is doing and what Crowley asked on the phone and- 

_Oh bother!_

“I’m going to need to branch out from baking,” Aziraphale says, looking toward the cooking section of the bookshop. “Evidently, I need to be sufficiently distracted lest I made an irresponsible mistake.”viii

Fortunately for him, there exists a wealth of non-baking-related cooking books in the cooking section, ranging from _Salads To Slim The Slimmed Waist Even Further_ to _One-Hundred-One Ways To Eat Fish in Only Five Sauces_ and _Twelve Christmastide Recipes To Worship A Monotheistic Religion With_. All-in-all, it's quite a fantastic range and Aziraphale sets to making meals with the same sort of gusto one has when they're desperately trying not to think about something they really want to think about. 

These distractions keep his attention fixed firmly on the kitchen Aziraphale installed—via miracle, of course—on the first floor of the bookshop; alongside the bathroom, bedroom, and rather appealing drawing room-slash-lounge. All, naturally, neatly decked out in lovely tartan—although he has finally branched out a little from beige.ix For several hours, Aziraphale remains utterly in ‘the zone’—as the kids are wont to say—cooking up a variety of snacks, beverages, and full-course meals that he, naturally, plans on partaking in over the next few days.

Food may cool down and ‘go off’ for mortals but Aziraphale has never once allowed anything _he_ has created to be wasted. The entire buffet remains perfectly pristine no matter how much time passes; as is per the nature of the miracle, Aziraphale places upon it all.

It had been early enough in the day that the sky outside held the blue sheen of only weak clouds—a kindness by the weather system currently waiting in the wings in the Atlantic, for sure—that Aziraphale is honestly surprised to glance out the kitchen window and see that the darkness of evening has stolen the daylight away. Of course, this means he can’t nip out to the corner shop and buy a pint of milk for his evening cup of tea—or bless the shop owner to remain illness-free for the next few days—but it’s no matter; he’s an angel and thus can miracle a pint of milk on demand.x

It is, then, with a rather hefty sigh of a job-well-done that Aziraphale retires to the drawing room-slash-lounge, with his evening cup of tea—tonight a rather daring blend by the name of Lady Grey—and finds himself settled rather comfortably in the armchair near the fireplace with its soothing crackling as ambience. A good book of the collected works of William Shakespeare—a delightful fellow to know, and quite jaunty to boot—is the most comforting thing in the world to Aziraphale right now; especially considering he finds himself thinking rather fondly on _Hamlet_ when he spies it on the Contents page.xi

 _Crowley dislikes Hamlet_ , Aziraphale thinks, smiling, _but he still made it popular_. The smile turns fonder. _For me._

Whilst it would be entirely sentimental of him to sit here and read _Hamlet_ —even going so far as to act out some of his more beloved scenes—the desire to peruse the well-known tragedy isn't quite there. 

But, tonight, Aziraphale finds himself rather hankering for something a bit more ribald than a tragedy; one of the comedies, with plenty of puns and insinuations abound. _Much Ado About Nothing_ sounds perfect! The dear Lady Beatrice is, Aziraphale shan’t ever admit, a favourite of his for she does so fiercely remind him of Crowley at times throughout the play.

“A bird of my tongue is better than a beast of yours, indeed,” he mumbles, smiling. “I do recall when he actually said that to me,” Aziraphale continues, tilting his head back to lean against the back of the armchair. “He seemed ever so pleased until I pointed out it was a quote from _Much_ _Ado_.”

Re-enacting some of the scenes from the most lively parts of the comedy provides Aziraphale with a good hour or so's worth of reading time; though, not including the tea and biscuits break some twenty-minutes in. He's so very focused on the interactions between Sir Benedict and Lady Beatrice that Aziraphale can be entirely forgiven for not registering the change in his environment until he next looks up from the book for a sip of his tea. 

Crowley is laid out, recumbent, on the chase lounge situated between the fireplace and the door. He is, Aziraphale notes somewhat blankly, clothed in what appear to be silk pyjamas in, as is customary of the demon, black; although, there is red lining on the lapels of the pyjama shirt which is vibrant and noticeable. Crowley, then, makes a very, very noticeable departure from the decor of Aziraphale's drawing room-slash-lounge. 

It also appears that the demon, upon longer inspection—it rightly should be _closer_ inspection but Aziraphale can't quite seem to make himself move from the armchair and thus he's forced to stare longer and harder instead—is asleep. 

Aziraphale's fingers twitch around the pages of Shakespeare's complete works. 

Crowley looks- he looks- he _is_ absolutely _resplendent_. 

That, it seems, is all Aziraphale is able to think at this juncture. 

Really, how is he supposed to be capable of rational—or irrational—thought when faced with a Fallen angel, one who happens to be rather exquisite and unique in Aziraphale's opinion? How? The simple truth of it is he can't. He just can't. 

Which is, in itself, a bit of a shock considering Aziraphale is very prone to thinking all the time about the littlest things one could possibly imagine; does his bow-tie look okay with this coat, are his books suitably dusty to deter customers, are the cushions on the sofa cushiony enough for Crowley's preference, are heaven going to punish him for liking George Orwell, and so on. Yes, Aziraphale is prone to thoughts of a rather anxious nature. 

Staring at Crowley laying on his sofa, comfortable and secure and _so very close_ when he hasn't seen him in weeks… Aziraphale cannot believe that he is so affected by the sight of the demon when they've gone years without seeing one another. 

_But that was before Armageddon_ , a little voice reminds him in a rather appallingly accurate rendition of Crowley's snitty tone when the demon is exasperated with the angel. _Things are different now, Angel._

Aziraphale is so very unsure of what to do. He ought wake the demon, ask him what he's doing _breaking the rules, Crowley_ but he also ought to really let the demon get some rest. From the look of him, it is startlingly clear that Crowley is deeply asleep, perhaps so much so that trying to wake him may cause the demon to panic or lash out. 

Someone knows but Aziraphale's only foray into sleeping ended with him almost smiting the poor human who unexpectedly woke him. xii

Still… He does need a _bit_ of an explanation at least for why the demon is currently lying in repose on his sofa. 

_How do the humans do it? Waking each other from sleep?_ Aziraphale has seen humans Do It for thousands of years—six in fact, six thousand years—and yet he’s still uncertain as to the actual methodological approach he ought take to wake Crowley. Demons aren’t like humans after all. Surely waking a demon would not be like waking a human. Surely.

The longer he deliberates—agonises and panics in that soft little anxiety way only the most anxious of people know so well—the longer Crowley sleeps. The longer he looks like he _fits sleeping on the sofa_. The sofa Aziraphale has labelled as Crowley’s since the first day the demon dropped himself down upon it and sprawled in that unrepentantly Crowley way.

Aziraphale doesn’t want to wake him.

He wants to keep him there. Keep Crowley lying on the sofa, maybe throw a blanket over him and gently miracle a pillow beneath his head. Or place it there _himself_ , with his own two corporeal hands. Touch those gossamer strands of ruby red, shift them gently and feel the warm scalp beneath as Aziraphale arranges the softest pillow he can miracle under the head of a demon he happens to love.

That’s what Aziraphale wants to do. Wants so much it must surely be _bad_ to want so wholly; so desperately. The very idea of _touching_ Crowley’s head to place a pillow beneath it already has Aziraphale’s fingers twitching, palms tingling at the imagined sensation they’d experience upon the contact. A gentle touch that would shift, Aziraphale knows, into one that lingers, seeking contact for as long as he’s able to gain it. Aziraphale wouldn’t be able to bring himself to pull away from the opportunity to flutter his fingers through the fiery tempest hair he’s _longed_ to touch; as long as he’s known Crowley in fact, he’s always longed but never allowed himself to hope.

But now he can and so he does.

It’s coarser than he imagined it to be; that’s the first thing Aziraphale realises when his fingertips finally run lightly over red hair splayed on the arm of the sofa. He’s always imagined it to be so smooth that there’d be no resistance to his touch, his fingers would glide right through the strands. But no, there’s some friction, slight but there. It’s still smooth, but it’s _real_ in a way Aziraphale’s fantastical imaginings have never been. He finds it appealing nonetheless.

Or perhaps, appealing _because_ it’s more than his limited imagination conjured in his imaginings.

Crowley doesn’t stir at the contact and Aziraphale seizes the brazen determination that saw him use a heavenly device—without authorisation or reading the manual—to slide his fingers through Crowley’s hair and press his fingertips to the demon’s scalp. The heat against his fingers is delightful, the blanketing warmth of hair that always helps keep a head warm on windy days, curling around Aziraphale’s hand like a comfort he hasn’t ever had the honour of experiencing. It makes something twist in his core, tightening a little in some strange manner that Aziraphale is more familiar with when he overindulges on cheesecake and crepes.

He ignores it.

A soft snuffling sound from Crowley has Aziraphale freeze. He stares down, eyes wide and perhaps a little panicked, at Crowley’s restful face; if Crowley opens his eyes now then Aziraphale might well discorporate on the spot. He doesn’t think Crowley would appreciate him doing so but that’s how he feels.

Fortunately, the demon doesn’t wake, only shifts a little on the sofa. His head presses against Aziraphale’s hand, the contact making his palm burn with sensation. While Crowley continues to slumber, dreaming and unaware of him, Aziraphale breathes a sigh of relief and quietly snaps his fingers.

He has the cushion, more pillow than traditional cushion that one would normally see on a sofa, in hand immediately. There’s no tassels on it and the lining is as soft as Aziraphale can imagine cotton to be. It’s a brief moment of flaring emotion as Aziraphale realises that, once he has placed the cushion behind Crowley’s head, he’ll have no reason to touch his hair, his scalp, him at all. The cushion will be in contact with the demon though. Aziraphale ought not feel resentment toward an inanimate object simply because its purpose is to be lain on. Really.

It takes only a moment to lift Crowley’s head forward enough to slip the cushion behind it and back down but Aziraphale finds himself drawing the gesture out, hand in Crowley’s hair, pressed against his scalp for as long as he possibly can before he’s forced to give up this contact. He doesn’t _want_ to give it up.

Something of his feelings must be discernible even to a sleeping Crowley because the demon, before Aziraphale can begin to force himself to remove his hand, rolls onto his side and effectively pins Aziraphale’s hand between cushion and Crowley’s ear and cheek. The warmth of Crowley’s scalp is nothing compared to the searing heat of his cheek and it has Aziraphale’s entire being hyper-focusing on the fire prickling his palm and fingers.

It’s _wonderful_.

“Oh,” Aziraphale whispers, staring down at Crowley’s face. The demon looks peaceful, lying on his side and facing Aziraphale’s kneeling form beside the sofa. There’s a softness to that face, Aziraphale thinks he’s never quite witnessed when Crowley has been awake. An openness.

Even during their friendliest moments, Aziraphale doesn’t think he’s ever seen Crowley look so openly soft as he does now. Even when they toasted _to the world, to the world_ , Crowley didn’t look so open.

So vulnerable.

It hits Aziraphale hard, like the fist from Uriel had only it’s so much more powerful. Crowley trusts Aziraphale, yes, he knows. But, for all Aziraphale knew this, for all that he knows Crowley cares and cares _deeply_ for him, he didn’t quite realise how much that care and trust extended.

For a demon to show such trust in an angel that he won’t even _wake up from a vulnerable state_ is something of a revelation for Aziraphale that has him giving in to the instinctive—how instinctive, how corporeal of him to _have_ this instinct—urge to press his free hand to Crowley’s face. To cradle that beautiful face in his hands and to lose himself in ingraining in his immortal memory the sight of such _depthless_ trust; of such bottomless _love_.

Aziraphale is a being made of love _to_ love but this- this- this is love in a way he has never experienced for himself. It’s almost a physical pain, the way it hits him; the way it lingers and suffuses his entire essence until he cannot even fathom _giving this up_.

Aziraphale will kneel here for as long as he needs to kneel here, as long as he _can and longer still._

Because this is an honourhe _cannot_ refuse. He’s not strong enough to deny it.

So he doesn’t.

However long he has to kneel here with his hands on Crowley’s face, his eyes committing to memory every freckle, every pour, every eyelash and eyebrow, Aziraphale is going to kneel here and do just that.

Until Crowley wakes up and freezes like a rabbit caught in headlights that is.

* * *

The Garden is warm this time of year. Well, actually, it's warm all the time, but the phrase "this time of year" is a decent sort of phrase and he kind of likes it so; this time of year, it is. 

Anyway, the garden is warm, it's pretty sunny out since clouds haven't been invented yet, and there's no risk of rain on the horizon; again, hasn't been invented yet. He feels like he should say something about that; can't possibly be good for all these plants to not get watered regularly, can it? 

A drop of rain lands on his nose. Guess rain has been invented _now_. 

**I SEE YOU, CHILD**

He doesn't flail, he _doesn't_.xiii

It isn’t considered ‘brave’ to run away and find a nice cosy rock to hide under, is it? No, thought not. A pity, because that’s precisely what he’s going to do, thanks.

Except there’s no rocks. There’s no… anything, actually. It’s all gone. Absent. Missing. Like a game designer removing items on a screen because they don’t _fit_. Except… well. He’s still here. In this nothingness.

 _Is_ he still here?

He figures he is, even if it doesn’t make sense. Sense doesn’t make sense, right now. How is he even doing this? What is going on? He was in the Garden a moment ago, then She spoke and now he’s in nothing and-

Oh. Absence.

Absence of Her.

 _Ouch_.

This isn’t Hell though. He’d know if it was Hell… right? Hell is pain. Hell is suffering. Hell is- whatever it needs to be to cause a being pain.

Guess his Hell right now is absence.

_Double ouch._

This is all very _not fun_ _and he’d really like for it to stop now, thanks._

Of course, it being what it is, life is perpetually kicking him in the metaphysical nuts because it doesn’t end; if anything, things get _worse_. Surprising that it _can_ get worse, but life is nothing if not a consistent bastard.

Any other time, he’d find that sort of endearing; charming. Or, he’d find the _source_ endearing, if it were a different source to whatever _this_ is. Sort of like preferring a particular breed of dog over other breeds because of purely biased reasons and stubbornly refusing to admit those reasons to yourself, or anyone else, as the reason for your preference. Like that.

Seeing someone you care about in the midst of nothingness, staring at you with an expression on their face you don’t really recognise is disorienting. Seeing that someone turn away and begin walking _into_ that nothingness, their form becoming more indistinct, more obscured by nothing—not darkness, even darkness is _something—_ is terrifying beyond words.

“Wait! Don’t go!” He cries out, reaching with a hand that he can’t see in the nothingness but feels exists nonetheless. “Don’t leave! Wait!”

 _Wait for me_ , he thinks, desperately.

In the time it takes to blink, approximately one-third of a second if you’re curious, the nothingness around him becomes _everythingness_. Literally.

Colour. Light. Noise. Sound. Touch. Sensation. Breath. Pain.

It’s all there again and it’s all _so much_ but it doesn’t stop him. Instinctive knowledge presses upon him and urges him to move, move, _move_ before it’s too late. Too late for what? He doesn’t know and he doesn’t want to find out.

So he starts to run but it’s like moving through molasses. His whole body is stuck moving at such a slow pace and that makes no sense. He can move at whatever pace he likes; he can move slower than a mollusc in the ocean opens itself or faster than the human brain can transmit a thought. But not right now, he can’t.

**HE IS LEAVING YOU, CHILD**

“No!” The word is ripped from his lips with explosive violence, making him shake and thrash and try to move _faster_. “No! He- he can’t! He won’t!”

The figure is so far from him now, so, so far, that it’s hard to pick out anything uniquely defining about it except for those clothes. Those obnoxiously horrific clothes. He focuses all of his being, all of his will and his desperation on those clothes.

Never had he thought that the colour beige would be so damned important.

“Angel! Angel, wait!” Crowley screams, throat burning with pain. His hand reaches as far as he can, nails stretching like talons trying to grip for prey. “Aziraphale! Please!”

The figure stops. Turns. All the world around Crowley freezes and fades in a single breath. There’s only him and his Angel. He’s on his knees somehow, hand still outstretched, and it feels like there are hands on him, holding him in place. Trying to pull him away into the nothingness.

“Angel, please,” Crowley whispers.

Aziraphale, in his beige clothes, that tartan tie all tied, shirt a starch white when it should be pale blue, stares at Crowley across the expanse between them. Those blue eyes are cold, that face closed off.

“Don’t leave me, please,” Crowley begs.

A flash of light blinds him for a moment and in the time it takes for his vision to return, Crowley’s been pulled down to the ground, pinned by hands that rise from the nothingness below and all around. He’s forced to crane his neck to look up at Aziraphale who hasn’t moved.

Crowley sees the burning golden light of Angelic wings afire with a thousand eyes that glow the electric blue of Aziraphale’s mortal eyes. It hurts to look at, so bright and Crowley’s so low down now and he can’t move and he’s trapped.

“Angel,” Crowley breathes, barely above a whisper, unable to draw in a full breath to speak even though he doesn’t need to. “Help me, please.”

Never in his life has Crowley said those words to anyone, not even Aziraphale. But he’s saying them now. He’s saying them now and-

“No.”

-they mean nothing at all. Crowley lets out a wordless cry as Aziraphale turns, thousand eye wings all turning their gaze from him, and walks away. Leaves him. Leaves Crowley to this Hell.

Hands grip at his hair. A finger pushes against his sunglasses, cracking the glass and pushing through to grind the shards into his eye.

Crowley screams at the sensation.

The hands turn hot, burning away at his mortal form, pouring agony right into the core of his being and all Crowley can do is writhe and scream.

**FEAR WILL DESTROY YOU, CHILD, DON’T LET IT**

Crowley is beyond fear. He’s straight into terror territory and rapidly approaching catatonia land. The voice of Her can’t stop this. Can’t help him even if She thought him worthy; which he’s not. He’s in Hell and he’s trapped here and Aziraphale left him and now he’s Alone.

**DON’T BE RULED BY YOUR FEAR, CHILD**

Something gentle touches him then, like an echo of something Kind. Crowley hasn’t known kindness in Hell ever. It doesn’t belong. It doesn’t belong and there’s a dissonance there that has him thinking even as his whole being is torn apart over and over and fear burrows itself right into the heart of him.

For the first time in a long, long time, Crowley reaches for that kindness. He grabs onto it like it’s a lifeline and _it is_.

**GOOD CHILD, NOW, WAKE UP!**

Bolting upright from a prone position, at speed, is disorienting enough that panting heavily, eyes wide and wild, is more sensation than Crowley can process. He catches up with everything quickly, instinctively knowing what he experienced was Not Really Real but it lingers.

It lingers so much that when his eyes land on the form of Aziraphale kneeling right next to him, his own eyes wide with surprise, Crowley the Serpent of Eden freezes like the rabbit being hunted by the snake. Or however that phrase goes.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale’s voice is loud in the silence of the bookshop, loud in the aftermath of a dream that held the demon captive, and Crowley flinches at it. “Crowley, are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” he says, throat dry and voice like a croaking toad in a bayou. He frowns and clears his throat. “Peachy, Angel.”

Maybe, if Crowley tries to convince Aziraphale that he’s not currently experiencing a whole lot of human-like physiological reactions to a _dream_ then Crowley will believe it himself? Judging by the disbelieving expression on Aziraphale’s face, he’s not going to be believing anything but the reality of cold sweat, trembling limbs, and deep inhalations for a good while.

Damn.

* * *

Before everything that had happened between them and to them during the Apocalypse-that-stalled, Aziraphale would have let Crowley’s intention to ignore his own discomfort pass. He’s not precisely proud of it—actually, he’s really rather _ashamed_ of how often he let Crowley go without pressing the demon when he saw Crowley was upset—but Aziraphale can’t change the past. He _can_ change the future.

"Well, I'm not," Aziraphale says because it's true, he's not fine, he's not okay, and Crowley ought know that he's allowed to be not okay. "You appeared on my sofa, asleep, dreaming, and wake like the denizens of Hell are hounding you- and don't think I didn't see that flinch just there when I mentioned Hell, Crowley!" Aziraphale leans closer to the demon, almost nose-to-nose. "I'm worried for you, dear, and perhaps I've been rather remiss in showing my concern for you due to my, really rather foolish, fear of Heaven. But things are different now and I have _no_ desire to let things remain as they are between us." 

Crowley seems to have frozen, eyes wide, pupils blown out to the point they've devoured almost all the golden amber of the demon's eyes. It's a little distracting, really, how fascinatingly _dark_ those pupils are, like black holes eating the light and life of the cosmos around them. But Aziraphale's focus will not be drawn away from Crowley _as a whole_. 

This is far too important a matter to be distracted by even beautiful things.

"It- it's nothing, Angel," Crowley says, mumbles really. "Just a- a bad dream, is all." 

Aziraphale glares at him. "Crowley, we don't _dream in the first place_ ," he all but exclaims and Aziraphale can see the way Crowley is cringing now, tense and weary.

No, not weary, _wary._

Is Crowley wary of _him?_

Aziraphale wants to snap at the thought that Crowley is wary around him, _of_ him, because they've known each other for six-thousand-years. They survived the apocalypse together. They _stopped_ the apocalypse together. Crowley has no reason to be wary of Aziraphale, just like Aziraphale has no reason to be wary of him. 

Except, Aziraphale _is_ wary of Crowley still. Not because he thinks the demon will betray him, or try to kill him, no. He's wary of Crowley's _judgement_ of him. He always has been. 

That day at the bandstand is painful for a multitude of reasons, not only because it was the day Crowley walked away from _him_ and not the other way around. 

Does Crowley censure himself around him? Aziraphale is rather afraid of the answer to that question. 

But not so afraid he'll stop pushing this now. 

"Crowley," he says, measured and calm like they're having a casual conversation and Aziraphale needs to explain something to Crowley who Isn't Getting The Point. "We're celestial beings, we don't dream. We don't even _sleep_ like humans do—no, not even you, dear, and you know it. I don't know how or _why_ you came to be on my sofa, _dreaming_ and that concerns me greatly. Please, don't lie to me about this."

Crowley looks away from him. "I don't lie to you," he mumbles. 

"You don't tell me the truth, either, dear," Aziraphale points out and Crowley glances at him. "Changing the subject and downplaying things counts as lying, Crowley."

"I think that counts as avoiding the issue, actually," Crowley says and Aziraphale sighs. "But okay, I see your point." 

"See it and ignore it, or see it and acknowledge it?" 

The grimace Crowley flashes him tells Aziraphale the answer is more the former than the latter and, really, Aziraphale can't have that. Certainly not. 

"Crowley, I was going to play our usual game, you know?" Aziraphale catches Crowley's gaze and holds it, wanting the demon to really _understand_. "I could have nodded and continued the merry little charade we have running between us; I pestering you for an answer as to why you showed up on my sofa unannounced, in the midst of a national lockdown might I add, and you dancing around the real reason with little jokes and distractions about missing my company. Neither of us ever really Talking About It Frankly."

The expression on Crowley's face throughout Aziraphale's diatribe grows more and more surprised even as the demon obviously tries to hide that surprise. With his sunglasses, Crowley might even have managed to hide that surprise from him; perhaps. 

"I don't know what you dreamt, but I see how it affected you," Aziraphale says softly, and he daringly faces a fear as he reaches out to trace the contour of Crowley's cheek lightly. The demon shivers at the contact. "And Crowley, my dear, dear Crowley, I don't want to ignore it anymore. Please."

Crowley's still unsure, hesitating, and Aziraphale can see it in those golden amber eyes. He wants _so much_ , but Crowley won't let himself have this. 

Aziraphale smiles softly. "Our own side, remember?" 

"Yeah," Crowley agrees, voice barely above a whisper. He nods slowly. "Our own side, right." 

* * *

Their own side. Right. That- that's the truth. That's Them. They're on their Own Side. Crowley nods. He needs to remember that. 

Before- before, they had bosses and rival companies that had One Big Plan in place which would see them trying to kill each other because _Orders Are Orders_. To disobey an order is to Betray The Company and to betray the company is to side with The Enemy; and such an act must be Punished. 

Rebellion is an act of great offence to those in power and it would have seen them both die to rebel. 

Of course, they rebelled anyway, because sometimes you _have to rebel_. Sometimes it's too important not to stand up and be counted as one of the Many Who Oppose This Tyranny. Even when it's scary. Especially when it's terrifying. Because if it's terrifying to do, then that means it's Beyond Important To Fight For. 

Stopping Armageddon; worth standing up and being counted as an Enemy to Both Sides? Crowley thinks so. 

They say there's two sides of history; the winning side and the losing side. One gets buried, whitewashed, erased: the other talked up, celebrated, lorded about. But Crowley doesn't believe that there's just _two_ sides to history. Nah. History is full of sides, like a Lovecraftian nightmare shape that constantly grows new sides like a deformed barnacle on the side of a sunken ship. 

Crowley knows that history is made up of a hundred million voices, all clamouring out to be heard in the static echo of modernity. He knows because he hears them everyday. Anyone who has lived through Events hears them. Sees them. Relives them. It's not fun, it's not easy, but it's the truth of it. 

History isn't made of two sides, it's made of _trillions_. People have picked and chosen which and what sides to give airtime to for generations. Carefully crafting narratives that support or discredit. For better or for worse. 

But throughout all of history as humanity knows it, there has been a common thread of passion and fire and fierceness that has moved mountains, toppled dictators, started and ended wars, forced politicians to give people rights most basic, and so on. Crowley has seen it all happen, been in the middle of it, causing strife but never really stemming the tide of humanity. 

Change happens because people push back against oppressive forces that seek to undo them, to undermine them, to make them unseen and forgotten. Crowley and Aziraphale fostered change when they pushed back against two entities determined to divide and conquer. They didn't know if they'd survive, Crowley honestly thought he'd go up in flames with his car, but they stood together, side by side, and stepped up. They pushed back. 

And the other side yielded. 

It was Adam's actions in the end that decided it all, but Crowley and Aziraphale weren't idle bystanders in the cosmic rebellion. They stood with the _Antichrist_ and they _Chose A Side_. Their own. Humanity's. 

Together they stood and together they endured and things are different now, but that is still the same. Together. 

So, Crowley chooses to be brave again. Here. Now. With His Angel. Because even though the idea of confronting This terrifies him, the idea of Aziraphale walking away from him—the dream flashes through his mind again—is infinitely more terrifying. 

"I don't know what I dreamt, Angel, not- not really," Crowley says, picking at the stitching on a sofa cushion nervously. "I heard a- a _voice_ , maybe it was Her, I don't know, it might have just been in my head or something." It was a dream, of course it was in his head. "But, anyway, I was running, I think, I'm not sure- wait, no, no. I was in The Garden, you know—" Crowley looks at Aziraphale who nods. The Angel knows what Garden he's on about. 

"Yeah, so I was in The Garden and I was thinking about how rain hadn't been invented yet, because it hadn't, not until Eve and Adam got evicted and- yeah, anyway." Crowley grimaces. "Sorry, don't want to bring that back up, bad memories for you, right?" 

Aziraphale tilts his head a little to the side, not quite shrugging but about as close to shrugging as the Angel is likely to ever get. "Well, they're not entirely pleasant, no," he admits, before catching Crowley's gaze. "Though the fact that I met you that day makes the memories far more palatable." 

Crowley blinks. Blushes. 

"Really, Angel, you'll give me a complex at this rate," Crowley says but Aziraphale doesn't laugh awkwardly and correct him, change the subject, or focus back on their original topic. Aziraphale doesn't follow the _rules_ of engagement. "Angel?" 

"I'm not jesting, Crowley." 

Crowley swallows. "Oh." 

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. "Your dream, what else happened, besides your contemplating rain before its invention?" Aziraphale asks, allowing Crowley this little bit of a reprieve from the Very Awkward Feelings he's experiencing right now. 

Being vulnerable _sucks_. 

"The Garden disappeared. Or was eaten by darkness, I don't know. It just went away." Crowley looks away from Aziraphale to stare at his fingers picking at the cushion stitching. "Everything was gone and it- listen, the general rule of thumb for Hell, what is it?" Crowley asks Aziraphale. "Like, how is it described and all that?" 

"How is it described? Oh, well," Aziraphale says, and he sounds a little hesitant to answer but he does anyway because he's Aziraphale and Crowley asked him a question. The angel always answers him, even if it's not always an answer Crowley _likes._ "Pits of boiling sulphur, full of the damned and wicked, cast from Her Sight, etcetera."

"It's bullshit."

"What?"

Crowley looks up at Aziraphale, cushion stitching half-murdered by his nerves. "Hell is adaptive to the Sinner, Angel." 

"Adaptive?" Aziraphale seems confused by that idea and Crowley doesn't blame him. Humans have this foolish idea that Heaven is adaptive to their souls. It's not. Heaven is Heaven and it's so static, it's almost possible to pick it up on HAM radio after the apocalypse. 

"You think Hell is empty and a void? That's what Hell is for you. You think it's full of brimstone and fire like a medieval priest's ramblings? That's it then," Crowley explains. "That's the truth of it for demons and humans. Satan has the power to shape Hell—any high-ranking demon does—but even then, the place is what it is _because_ the Devil thinks it should be that way." 

Crowley shakes his head. 

"Hell for me has always been… Absence," he says looking at Aziraphale. He's admitting something that no other demon would ever _dare_ to admit to an angel. Or to another demon. "Not just no sight or sound or senses and that. I mean _Absence with a capital A_. Of Her." Crowley swallows thickly. "Of love." 

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale says and he sounds so _sad_ and that's not what Crowley wants him to sound like. But Aziraphale is sad anyway because the angel is too good and too kind not to hurt on behalf of another. 

"It's fine, angel, really," Crowley says, shaking his head. "I'm used to it, honest, but- just-" Crowley bites his lip. "Dreaming is weird and it felt so much _worse_ in the dream for me. Like it physically _hurt_."

Aziraphale stiffens. "You're hurt?" The angel doesn't wait for Crowley to answer him, laying a hand on Crowley's forearm and Crowley can feel the divine power in the contact. 

Although they are beings that are opposite, one infernal, one divine, they're fundamentally the same. Demons are angels that are fallen. Demons are the subspecies of angels. What works for angels, words for demons. Hellfire and Holy Water are specific to their type of being but the core of their power is, in the end, the same. 

Divine power only hurts if the one using it _intends_ for it to hurt. For all of Aziraphale's snippiness with Crowley, the demon knows the angel has never wished him harm with his power. Just like Crowley has never wished Aziraphale harm either. 

Echoes of pain that Crowley has felt throughout the dream and not noticed during it, fades to nothing; replaced by gentle warmth of a banked fire. 

"Thanks, angel," Crowley half-whispers. He looks up at Aziraphale's face and is trapped by those intense eyes focused on him. 

"You are more than welcome, dear," Aziraphale replies just as softly as Crowley's half-whisper. He's much closer to Crowley now, with his hand on Crowley's arm. 

It feels intimate. 

It _is_ intimate. 

"What woke you from your dream, Crowley?" Aziraphale asks in that still so soft a voice. "What upset you so much about it?" 

Crowley, though he doesn't want to, answers Aziraphale. 

"You." 

Aziraphale reels back a little, his eyes widening in surprise and Crowley sees the flash of hurt in them. He hurries to explain. 

"I mean, my dream of you," he says, tripping over the words and with a desperate expression on his face. "Angel! I was in my own Hell and it was empty of love and you were cold, and it was my fear, I know, but it _hurt_ me to see and hear and I woke up so afraid because I thought it was real and I couldn't- I couldn't bear it. I couldn't." 

Aziraphale's face crumples into an expression of deep pain and sadness. The kind he wore when they realised they might have to kill Adam before- before they parted on bitter terms for a time. Crowley hates that he's the reason for it. Again. 

"Angel, Angel, please." Crowley reaches out and grasps at Aziraphale's other hand, the one not on the demon's arm. "I didn't mean to hurt, I didn't. I just- the dream- I-" 

"You dreamt that I rejected you and didn't love you." Aziraphale's voice is flat and distant. 

Crowley feels like he's just been slapped in the face with a dead fish. 

"Your deepest fear is being unlovable. Of losing the regard another has for you," Aziraphale continues in that flat and distant tone. "So much so that you dreamt I would reject you like _She_ did. Me."

Crowley hangs his head. "I'm sorry." 

The hand on Crowley's arm falls away, the one the demon grips shifts, and Crowley waits for the moment Aziraphale moves away from him. He deserves it. His fears have hurt, the angel. That's unforgivable. 

"Open your eyes and look at me, Crowley." 

He doesn't want to. He really doesn't. 

A hand gently touches his jaw, tip of a finger resting just shy of Crowley's lips. 

"Please." 

At his core, Crowley has always considered himself to be quite a lot of a coward. But then he'd had the balls to stand against Heaven and Hell and spend six thousand years playing with 'The Enemy' and lying about it. So really, he's never been a coward. Crowley is just curious.xiv

So he lifts his head, opens his eyes, and finds Aziraphale staring at him with a gentle, loving smile on his face and his other hand hovering near his face. When his eyes meet Aziraphale's, the angel's smile grows even softer somehow, and that waiting hand joins the other on Crowley's face, cradling it with a reverence only Aziraphale has ever shown him. 

"It's I who owes you an apology, dear," Aziraphale says, leaning forward to press their foreheads together. Crowley's nose bumps Aziraphale's and the demon blinks at that. "I've given you the impression that I don't love you when that couldn't be further from the truth."

_What?_

"Demon Crowley, Serpent of Eden, friend, colleague, and hero," Aziraphale says and Crowley has no idea what this is. The Angel is deluded and he's speaking gibberish. He has to be. "I remember the first time I ever saw you, the words you spoke, and the desire I had to shield you from the rain. Not just because I am an Angel and to do so is in my nature, but because you were _kind_ to me. You offered me reassurance and camaraderie at a time when I sorely needed it and didn't realise."

"Crowley," Aziraphale says, voice dropping to a whispering breath. "You were there for me when I needed you, every time, for six _thousand_ years. And I took your kindness as expected because I was an Angel and you a Demon. I hid behind duty and our positions as enemies and I am _ashamed of myself for that_." 

"A-angel." Crowley doesn't know what to say. He doesn't. Aziraphale's stolen all the words from him with this- this- _this_ _confession_. 

"You have reached out to me for the entirety of our Arrangement and I have pulled back out of fear and doubt. Out of shame. And you- you have never judged me for it. Not truly. You've never _hated_ me for this cruelty I've inflicted on you with my uncertainty. I don't quite think you ever will, either, will you?" Aziraphale closes his eyes and breathes deeply. "No, I don't think so. And that, my dear, _dear_ Crowley, is why I'm apologising. Because you deserve to have been cherished from the start and I didn't do that. Can you forgive me for the harm I've caused you with my reticence and fear? My ignorance?" 

Crowley doesn't know what to do. What to say. Everything in him is frozen. Stopped. System error, please restart. Blue screen of death. 

But a hard reboot is a lot quicker when you're a demon than when you're an IBM Thinkpad from 2001. He should know; Crowley's the reason those dammed things take a lifetime to reboot. 

"Angel, Angel, I've never held it against you," Crowley says because it's true. He hasn't held Aziraphale's actions against him, or judged him for what he has, or hasn't, done. Crowley knows what Heaven is like, he still remembered what it _was_ and even then it was cold. Heaven may be Good but it's not Kind. _By Her is it not kind_.

"I literally- just- _how could I ever hate you?"_ Crowley asks and he must sound desperate and confused because he _is_ desperately confused right now. "You're just so good and kind and you didn't try and smite me and you- the wing- the rain- you offered me shelter in the storm. I don't think I have it in me to hate you, Angel. And for a demon, that's pretty damned awful. Not being able to hate an angel." Crowley tries to lighten the mood the way he always has when they've Talked About Things. It doesn't really work because, of course, Aziraphale isn't in the mood to Ignore Things Anymore. 

Aziraphale shakes his head. "Angels can hate just as much as demons," he says and Crowley wants to scoff at that because, _no, angels just can't_. "To know how to love is to know how to hate." 

"So sin is just virtue taken to the extreme? That what you're trying for here? You're guilty of sin because of- _what_ exactly? Being able to love?" Crowley shakes his own head. "Maybe, in some cases, that might be true. But, and seriously, listen Angel, I know love can hurt. _I know_. I know it can turn to hate and violence and murder. I've seen it. I've been given commendations for _causing it_. I know what you're saying. But there's one problem with this logic of yours: I love you but _I don't hate you."_

Crowley feels like _he's_ now in control of this conversation. Aziraphale is staring at him now, looking as hopeful and desperate as Crowley has felt this whole time. 

The angel is looking at him like Crowley is an oasis in the desert and Aziraphale is a human dying of thirst. 

Aziraphale is looking at Crowley the same way Crowley has looked at Aziraphale for the last six-thousand-years. Aziraphale doesn't have sunglasses to hide his eyes behind, however. Fortunate for Crowley, less so for Aziraphale if he's trying to hide how he's feeling. 

But he's not, Crowley realises. 

Aziraphale isn't shying away from this at all. The angel is pushing and refusing to yield. No more deflections. No more distance. 

Crowley has a feeling that if he were to reach out with his essence, Aziraphale would cling to him as desperately as Crowley knows he'd cling back. 

Maybe he should reach out, then? 

"If I hated you Angel, if I ever _could_ , I wouldn't want to touch you the way I do." Crowley can see Aziraphale's pupils dilating and it spurs him on. "If I hated you Angel, I wouldn't want _you to touch me_." 

Aziraphale inhales sharply, like a fish taking its first gulp of oxygenated water after being held in a fisherman's grip as he decides whether to throw his catch back or take it home for dinner. 

"I hate the things that have been done to you," Crowley admits, because why not, they're doing this and the truth is too important to obfuscate anymore. "I hate that I've not been able to do much about it. Anything, really. I couldn't even stop them from kidnapping you- me- you know what I mean." 

Thankfully, Aziraphale nods. 

"I hate a lot of things relating to you—" Aziraphale finches but Crowley quickly presses on, not letting the angel pull away from him "—but I don't hate you. I hate what you've had to do because of orders. That orgy you had to cause with that damned Roman Emperor? I hated that because _you_ hated that and _couldn't tell Heaven no_." 

Crowley had done more than he usually bothered to do in terms of causing strife and problems for Heaven when he'd found that out.xv

"I hate that you were put in a position, Angel, where you were so afraid to make a choice that you tried to avoid everything. I hate that _She_ let that happen to you. I hate so much but not you," Crowley whispers, and he touches Aziraphale's cheek, just below his right eye. "Never you."

"Oh, _Crowley_." 

Whatever distance remained between them is consumed as Aziraphale envelops Crowley in a hug, hands shifting off his face and winding around Crowley's back. Aziraphale's right hand moves to settle on the back of his neck, barely touching the hair on Crowley's nape, while the left hand settles squarely in the centre of his spin just below his shoulder blades. 

Crowley is enveloped by warmth and emotion and so, so much love that he can physically _feel_ pouring out of Aziraphale. Close contact has always allowed Crowley to gain insight into what someone is feeling but Aziraphale has always guarded himself; the way any angel or demon would against undesired reading. But now- now, the angel isn't guarding himself and Crowley can _feel everything from him_. 

It'd be overwhelming if it wasn't so bloody good. 

Crowley hasn't felt love like this for him in a very, very long time. Maybe never. 

"What a pair we make," Aziraphale mumbles into Crowley's collar and he sounds amused and a little bit sad at the same time. Crowley can understand that; he feels similar at their existence. 

An exercise in longing and restraint. 

"Bloody good pair, Angel," Crowley says quietly and Aziraphale huffs a little laugh. "Near as I can tell, we love each other even though we don't think we deserve it. Sounds like a match made in- uh-" 

That metaphor isn't quite apt. 

Aziraphale leans back just enough to pull his face away from Crowley's collar and look him in the eye. "Made on Earth," the angel suggests and Crowley gives him a half-smile that's genuine. 

"Yeah," he says, huffing out his own breath of laughter. "Yeah, Angel, a match made on Earth." 

Gradually, in the soft silence that falls around them, Crowley finds himself lying down on the sofa again, Aziraphale nestled in close against his side. One of the angel's hands is in his hair, gently carding through Crowley's hair in a slow, repetitive motion that has the demon relaxing back into the sofa more and more. 

It's only natural that he drifts off, that warm heat in his core that beats in a steady rhythm to Aziraphale's heart. Crowley won't have any nightmares now, he knows that, not with Aziraphale holding him fast and refusing to let go. 

In a few hours, Crowley will wake and Aziraphale will make a quip about how the demon has slithered his way into the bookshop using his dreams. Crowley's response will be to physically turn into his serpent form and slither all the way to Aziraphale and up the angel, curling around him as he goes, until his snout is pressed against Aziraphale's cheek. There, Crowley will make a quiet remark that will have Aziraphale blush and smile in that beautiful way he does. 

That quiet remark, readers, is thus: _I slithered all the way from Eden, Angel, just so I could wind up in your arms. It was worth the journey._

* * *

* * *

i It will escape Crowley entirely that he is capable of dreaming. That his divine origins and now infernal nature do not preclude the capacity to dream. Rather, it's a matter of Crowley not realising that dreaming is a _natural_ part of sleeping for humans. When he first discovered what sleep was, Crowley understood it as a lack of conscious awareness of the physical plane. So, naturally, that's what his sleep is. But he's a being beyond human limitations and losing _conscious_ awareness as an angel or a demon simply means the more trans-dimensional aspects of their nature is focused on more. So, for Crowley, he doesn't actually sleep in a restorative manner, he simply passes time in a different plane of existence until the alarm buzzer on his phone wakes his physical form. 

ii Crowley is, indeed, a poor demon. He's far more nuanced than a demon, even if that's what he perceives himself to be. But even a poor demon can be a mighty foe if pushed. Not that this is relevant, of course. No, the relevant thing is that Crowley can dream _if he so chooses_. For the power of the divine and infernal function upon the same premise: Will. Perhaps She should have explained that to her children in the beginning; it might have prevented a lot of heartache, but what is done is done in this iteration of reality. But that's a topic for another time.

iii Unlike Aziraphale, Crowley has always been a fan of travelling the world. He likes to see the variety in life, see what his actions in The Garden spawned out on distant mountain tops and in quiet little cottages on the moors. It pleases him even with the knowledge that his actions also caused much suffering. But, of course, he's a demon; that's what he's meant to cause. Anyway, being stuck in one place without the freedom to travel is something that Crowley despises. It reminds him of dark times, of invisible chains holding him to an iron will of anger and darkness in fiery pits and burning pools of sulphur. He likes to be free to move about. So the lockdown is certainly making him snippy; which is the nicest way to phrase it. 

iv He hasn’t. Aziraphale is just bloody awful at communicating; for all that he knows every word humans have ever thought to put down on paper—and a few they haven’t—the angel lacks the social skill necessary to convey his thoughts to Crowley without, as they say, putting his foot in it.

v It isn’t.

vi This _stuff_ as Aziraphale puts it in his mind, always rather disgusted by these slang terms, revolve around The Problem Of Saying No When He Wants To Say Yes. Saying ‘no’ has always been the responsible thing to do. Always. In the past. Because, of course, to say _yes_ would have risked them both. It _did_ risk them both. Heaven and Hell had sought to destroy them both. Now, Aziraphale doesn’t care about his own survival necessarily; oh he’s _scared_ of course, scared of disappointing God, scared of being punished for being kind, but he was _terrified_ for Crowley. Dear Crowley who was a constant companion on earth, a friendship that found its roots in the dirt of Eden and flowered over the eons of life upon Her Special Project. Saying ‘no’ to Crowley has always been the responsible thing to do because ‘no’ _kept Crowley alive_. But things are different now. Aziraphale has to accept that. In more ways than one.

vii With the hindsight of time, Aziraphale will come to find ‘fandom’ to be endlessly fascinating. To some degree, he wonders if Crowley created the idea, but in the end, prefers not to ask. The ingenuity of the human race, Aziraphale truly believes, is based in its capacity to tell stories. Stories based on stories, like a cake within a cake; delicious and endlessly satisfying. The history of humanity is contained within every tale it has ever told. Fandom is just one more way of telling humanities history; a world of stories, rich and new to him. The Archive of Our Own mentioned in the treatise is certainly a world worth exploring; even if Aziraphale takes to printing many of the ‘fanfics’ he comes across and binding them into physical books. He’s rather fond of books, see. Really rather fond.

viii What constitutes an ‘irresponsible mistake’ for Aziraphale, perhaps, is not quite the same as what an ‘irresponsible mistake’ for you, dear reader. For Aziraphale, an irresponsible mistake can range from accidentally using the Wrong sort of ice-topping on a specific type of bun, to agreeing to go watch a _Love In A Village_ with a friend and being accosted by the matter of Duty and Love aligning together in a happy ending that dug at his heart. Of course, such a range for the term is, understandably, not accurate for others and thus Aziraphale's conception of an 'irresponsible mistake' is very context specific. Wonderfully, so. 

ix Cream- and coffee-coloured tartan counts as Not Beige. Technically.

x The miracle Aziraphale would perform on the shopkeeper, a rather gentle man named Mohammad who often saved the best looking chocolate eclair in the display fridge for Aziraphale, would do no harm for not being performed that night. The previous nights’ miracle would tide the gentleman over to Aziraphale’s next visit.

xi The author is referencing _The Norton Shakespeare_ 2nd Edition (2008) book; a rather large behemoth full to the brim with Shakespeare's poems, plays, and textual analyses of the lot. It clocks in at an astounding three-thousand-four-hundred-and-nineteen pages. A bit of ‘light’ reading, for an angel such as Aziraphale, of course.

xii Fortunately for everyone's sakes, Aziraphale had been able to stop himself in time and had channelled the Divine Power he'd called forth into quite the Blessing. Heaven had actually been rather pleased with the results though Aziraphale wisely did not mention the cause of the Blessing as being Accidental Potential Smiting Due To Unexpectedly Being Woke Up From Sleeping. Gabriel had always looked down on basic human processes, sleep especially: "it's counter-productive," the archangel had explained once when Aziraphale had asked, "sleeping wastes time and energy they could better spend actually being useful to Heaven." Aziraphale hadn't asked again after that.

xiii He does. 

xiv Curious _and_ brave but if you say to Crowley's face that he's the latter, he acts as offended as if you called him 'Nice'.

xv The revelation of Luke Skywalker's parentage and the truth about Leia Organa's parentage had gotten Crowley two commendations from Hell; with Hell receiving a snippy letter from Heaven a week later. The letter, incidentally, read as follows: TO THE DENIZENS OF HELL. REMEMBER THAT LUCAS AND STAR WARS ARE OURS. YOU HAVE RODENBERRY AND STAR TREK. STAY OUT OF OUR AFFAIRS UNTIL THE PRE-ORDAINED TIME. SIGNED MICHAEL THE ARCHANGEL, HEAVEN CEO. Naturally, Crowley considers this letter to be a Highlight of his career as a demon and also a very good gauge of how much he pissed Heaven off; almost as much as learning about Nero's heavenly orgy pissed him off.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are, as always, greatly appreciated.


End file.
